If You Close Your Eyes
by raynperdition
Summary: John writes one last blog post after Sherlock's fall. (Sad. Suicide themes. May or may not be continued- all depends on the feedback.) Some things, time truly cannot heal.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: The title is from the song Pompeii by Bastille. This is sad and there are mentions of Johnlock. You don't have to squint. It's plain. It's there. ANGST. Suicide. (Um, it _is_ about John and Sherlock.)

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Once upon a time, I realized something that would eventually mean a hell of a lot more than I ever thought it would. You see, I was a fairly healthy, happy individual…or as happy as one can be with a smile plastered to his face and a limp that was 'psychosomatic' according to my nearly insane flat-mate- who doubled as a consulting detective with something of a sociopath disorder. I was watching him stroll around a dead body when I was hit with my epiphany. And when I say hit, I do truly mean hit.

You see, I had always thought living was for the, well, living. That's not so. Living is for the dying. We're all dying, you see. I had seen this in Afghanistan, when I was a doctor performing on men who had literal holes blown through them. War is a terrible thing, and I had seen more of death than I had ever wished to- only to come home to London and get thrown in with a man who actually danced with happiness at the word 'murder'. We all have psychological issues, don't judge mine- and hell, Sherlock was fascinating to me, okay.

Living was something I was currently struggling to do, every waking breath was another battle to fight. And god, was I getting tired of it. Every time a bus passed between me and Sherlock and the sidewalk across the street, I considered jumping in front of it. The only thing that stopped me was Sherlock.

You see, I wasn't really the emotional type. I had them- far more than the sociopath I was starting to think of as much more than a colleague. He was…frustrating- to the point of me wanting to rip out my greying hair- and irritating and the must utterly emotionally-stunted man I had had the _joy_ of meeting. But, when I got to know Sherlock, I got to know a man who might have actually changed the way my heart beat- if such an idea wasn't so utterly ridiculous and illogical that Sherlock would've laughed his _perfect_ ass off if I had mentioned the notion out loud to him. He never listened, he made me do things I would never have imagined doing, and he was possibly the most driven, lazy bastard in the world. He loved murder- and god knows, if he had been less of a man, he probably would've been a serial killer. He loved mystery- and truth be known, this was one of his more winning traits- to the point of not sleeping or eating till he solved the most recent case we had on our plates. But he was also a demolished man. An addict- apparently, that was one vice he was _attempting_ to get over. A sociopath, as I previously mentioned. And the idea of personal space- other than his own, _of course-_ was not an idea he seemed to be capable of grasping. More than once, I've been awoken to him standing over my bed with his imperially arched brow, telling me to get my lazy ass up, because he needed _'his'_ blogger. God knows, I've been close to killing that man more times than I'm proud to admit.

But, he'd won me over long before he took that fall.

And that fall…well, that was when I came back to my epiphany that had hit me so few weeks ago- only to be forgotten in the ensuing chaos that seemed to enshroud Sherlock in his enigmatic little cloak that enticed the weak of heart- _me-_ into falling in love with him. It truly wasn't until his lithe, slender, bleak form fell off of that god damn building that I realized I was hopelessly in love.

And that, in that moment, Sherlock Holmes had given me a shove into a world I could not handle. A world without love and companionship- and if I'm being honest with myself, and _yes,_ I am trying, Sherlock, so _shut up-_ without hope.

You see, I'm a staunch, military man even if my stint in the armed forces was merely as a doctor. I saw every bloody thing all of those soldiers saw. I saw death, and I fought with it face-to-face. I have dealt with things no man ever should, and I did it with a straight back and a determination that got me through it all. There has been no body I haven't come to terms with losing. There has been no blood spilt that has made me truly cry. There has been no loss that I have not overcome.

And here comes Sherlock Holmes to ruin my perfect, clean run. Because there was blood on that concrete that I cried over. There was a loss that, for the life of me, I could not overcome. In courting her, I found that everything was superficial and a lying façade. Sherlock wasn't there anymore, and I simply couldn't find it in my heart to replace him.

Replace him.

How laughable.

He was the great Sherlock Holmes, he was _irreplaceable._ And within the blink of an eye, and the stutter of my poor, miserable heart- he was gone. Just like that. Just like he'd never really been there at all.

And so, I began to die. Inside. Of course, to those who've lost someone they truly love, this concept isn't all that difficult to grasp.

And let me tell you, time _doesn't_ change things. It really doesn't. I have heard that time heals all wounds. That, my lovely readers, is a lie from the devil. Whoever coined that phrase, I'd like to have a stern talking to with. For my heart, my soul, my placid, simple mind cannot heal from this.

And so, this shall be my last blog post. This is it, dear readers. I cannot live without him, therefore, I shall die as he did.

I shall take a fall.

I shall walk over the edge and fly one last time- as I did with him, on his every case, every time I looked in his explosive blue eyes, every time he explained to me the way his brilliant volatile mind worked.

Goodbye.

I love you, you stupid, stupid man.

I love you, Sherlock Holmes.

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A/N:** I'm sorry. I didn't actually intend for this to end this way...and who's to say it's over, eh?**

**Love me. I'm a terrible person. Whoop.**

**Pleeeease review? This is my first Johnlock fic. Be gentle ;)**

**~xoxox, Rayn.**


	2. Chapter 2- My Immortal (Evanescence)

Last month, I wrote a note on this blog. I said that I was following Sherlock off the precipice, into the dark, into the unknown. I fully prepared to follow through on this intention. I stood at the brink, looked over the edge of the roof, standing in precisely the spot he had as I stared up at him from the road before St. Bart's. I looked down. You won't believe what I saw. I didn't.

There is something ethereal in watching Sherlock Holmes run- great coat riding the wind behind him, hair blown off his face, eyes dark and unbelievable focused. He seems like a man from another world or time, racing past us of ordinary, normal ilk as if we don't exist. And when trailing behind him, you feel yourself cloaked in awe of his pure speed, like a panther, streaking towards his mark without thought to what is behind or beside. He has one purpose.

And when I looked down from that rooftop, toe-to-toe with death, I saw him sprinting- and I was that one purpose on his mind. To be completely honest, I nearly swooned. And I certainly didn't believe my eyes. I had envisioned him enough during the past three years that I wagered it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to think that I might have finally snapped whilst blanketed in my storm-covered grief. Nevertheless, within a few moments- in which I'm fairly sure I didn't inhale or exhale once- he burst out onto the roof. He was panting, breathless, and, god above, he was alive.

I won't tell you all that we said as he assured me he was, indeed, real. He coaxed me off the precipice upon which I stood, and wound his arms around me tightly- as if he were afraid I might change my mind and jump anyways. I shall reveal that I did indeed punch him, in a moment of pure rage, sending him straight to the ground. I followed him down, begging him to forgive me and to never leave me again.

Once, I perceived him as a machine, without emotion or feeling.

Now, I see a man too wise to show his heart to the world.

I see a man who has felt loss.

I see a man who can, and _does_, love.

I see a man who has taken me into his arms, and given me the will to live.

I see a man who is mine, and he must surely see in me, a man who is his.

Since then, he has returned to me. Moved back with me, and renewed our life together. I cannot tell you the pure joy I get watching this vision of a man striding around a crime scene with lofty brow and contemptuous disregard for all others treading upon such priceless, pristine information. He is a vision, indeed, arcane and nearly god-like in his beauty and intelligence. He is elegant, brash, and brilliant. He is everything I had longed for all those years in which I thought him dead, gone out of my reach. Oh, how happy I am to have been wrong.

He sits across from me now, perking up visibly when the bell rings and Mrs. Hudson allows D.I. Lestrade to come up to our flat. I wish you could see the pure, impenetrable joy upon his face as the older man gives him the facts of the crime- all things which my man could deduce seconds after arriving on the scene. He's barely listening to Greg, muttering under his breath, pacing with his hands pressed together under his lofty nose- which is now a little crooked thanks to my outpouring of anger.

"Christ, John, get off that thing. There is darkness afoot, darling. A lovely, harrowing murder!" He grins at me wickedly, that gleam in his eyes that bodes of danger and a happy Sherlock. "Come!" When he calls, I am helpless to do ought but follow.

We are whole. We are hale- although he eats far less than I wish him to. And we have a new case. I shall return, my lovely readers, as soon as I am given a moment's rest. But now is not the time, it is the time to run, to follow where he leads, and to save him from whatever trouble he gets himself into- a remarkable amount for such a brilliant man.

~JW

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A/N: **Ha. They're happy.**

**I was told that my scribblings are a 'sobfest'. Yes, yes they are. But I feel that a lot of people need to know that fictional characters experience the same things they do- and this is my outlet for hard times in my own life. I write dark because that is what I have felt. I have felt darkness. I have felt pain and depression and many other things that occur in my writing which some might find gloomy, depressing, or pessimistic. I write what I've felt.**

**I do not wish to disappoint anyone who reads my stories- and I thank you all from the very depths of my heart for reading what I post on this site. You all have no clue how much I appreciate your reviews and opinions. It has helped me grow in ways I never imagined. I hope my talent has grown with me.**

**BTW, if this is utter shit, I assure you I had written up this entire chapter before- it was BEAUTIFUL and elegant and perfect- and then my fucktard computer deleted it. Therefore, I apologize, and assure you that I intend to go take an axe to my computer as soon as I post this. Or maybe a bazooka. I like it when things go boom.**

**I love you all, and hope you enjoyed this tiny chapter.**

**~xoxox, Rayn.**


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